Naked Came I
by villettegoddess
Summary: A little something I wrote to vent my feelings on Sweeney Todd. There's no time travel, elves, Nazis, Mr. Darcy, or sharks with lasers on their heads, so I apologize if you think it's too boring, but I simply wrote what I felt. And that's it.
1. Chapter 1

March 20th, 1846. I had the nightmare again.

This is how it always goes: I'm in the ballroom-the ballroom that never gets used. Dim light blazes from the lamps that are never lit. And it's so full of people that I feel I catch their sweat; they're dancing to a loud, monstrous harpsichord reverberating from nowhere, dressed in grotesque oversized masks and horned regalia, red lion manes. I can barely sift through them all; I'm exhausted; my head is throbbing and I'm sweating through my clothes. Shameful!

I see the familiar couch in a gap between bodies. When I push, an opening in the mass of satin-clad dancers breaks, and I fall onto cushions. Some nights I have a glass of drink in my hand.

Then I see him.

His hair is a darker grey here. I try to call after him: "Help! Get me out of here!" He approaches me, smiling, and for a moment I feel relief. I believe that he'll take me from the madness; soothe me as he tends to do. Only his smile evolves. He's smirking now, like there's some private joke, piercing me with his eyes. As I freeze in dumbfounded confusion, he lunges forward, hair carried by the force of his stride, and falls atop me as unseen hands clamp my wrists down from behind. Delirious, I can't tell what's happening, but I cry out in agony. All around, screeching, animalistic laughter pounds in my skull. This is amusement, to them.

Now I lie saturated with sweat, very awake. Tears, it seems, have come. I hear my breaths heaving as if from someone else.

Footsteps in the hall. The door to my room creaks open, and a held-aloft candle reveals him. The same face.

"Puss? I heard you cry out. Is everything all right?"

Feebly, I raise my bloodless head, uncomfortable in my sweaty puddle. I squeak "I had a bad dream."

"Oh. . ." His baritone purr always gets me. Kneeling at the side of my bed, he sets the candle on my side table. "Poor child. Do you want to cuddle? Will that make it better?" The velvet on his dressing gown shimmers darkly.

"I'm getting old for that, sir."

"Are you sure, poppet? Shall I leave the candle here? Oh, my poor girl. . ."

His pleading eyes communicate need. A metaphysical rumble seems to warn me. "Leave the candle," I whisper. "Now please, I know that bad dreams aren't real. I'll be all right." He leans down to kiss my forehead, the smell of stale bay rum; his day-old stubble grazes my tender skin. It feels divine. "I love you. Jesus loves you. I'll see you in the morning."

Now there's only the burning candle and the blackened room around me.

It's a coal-black London night, 1831. Honeyed yellow throws ample light down the streets, some in lamps, some in windows. Fleet Street appears dead, no human figure stirring outside, but candles burn where work needs to be done. Glancing out now and then, Nellie scours her counter with water obtained from the river, trying not to doze off. She is thirty-five and absolutely vivacious, hair silky strawberry-blonde and eyes great big pools of playful, gooey blue. Her doll-like, rounded features might be called sweet, but something in her manners hints at a peculiar undercurrent fueling her being. It makes the neighbors talk.

_Click. SLAM._ Nellie jolts; the bell at her front door jingles. Lucy's back from God-knows-where. She expects Lucy to silently proceed up to bed-dialogue has always been rare between them-but she hears sobbing. Nellie looks up at Lucy Barker. Hair disheveled, dress filthy, face red, and soulful eyes burned with tears, she whimpers and falls to her knees.

"Nellie!" she wails. "Oh my God, Nellie-"

Nellie sets her rag on the counter and comes round to Lucy. She puts her hands on her hips. "What is it, Lucy? Where did you get off to?"

"Nellie-" Her head in her hands. "The judge-the judge-the judge-"

Lucy heaves like a dying animal. Nellie stares, skeptical and incredulous. She raises her brow. "Oh Lawks. Don't tell me. Did he-"

"He had nothing on under his cape." Fighting the blaring noise and images of the last hour, Lucy meets Nellie's eyes, hers reddened and gushing. She shakes violently, lips trembling. "Oh Nellie, Nellie, you have to help me. I might get with child! What shall I do? Think of what everyone will say-so many people laughing at me-" As she reaches her arms up to Nellie, she lets out a deep, strong sob, hardly able to breathe.

"So it's true what they say about Irish girls." Nellie's expression does not change. "Thank the good Lord Benjamin ain't around to see this." Her sarcasm remains secret.

"Nellie, what are you about? I DIDN'T WANT IT!" Lucy's head falls back into her hands.

"Well, how was Judge Turpin supposed to know that? I wager he couldn't very well help himself. Why did you go to his bloody house in the first place? And in such a dress as makes you look like a bloody Siren?"

"I didn't want to be there, either! Bamford knocked on my door while you were sleeping; he told me Turpin wanted to apologize. I tried to say I couldn't go to him, but he pulled me by the arm and wouldn't let go!"

"Christ," remarks Nellie. "Well, anyway, what are you so worked up about? It's not like you had ought to lose."

"Ought to lose. . .?"

"You married Ben. You had a child. The deed is already done. And, Christ, what did you expect would happen after being so soft on Turpin? Don't think I didn't hear you all meek and quiet-like these past weeks, just egging those two on! And they kept sending you presents! Couldn't you see it only encouraged them? I'm sorry, Lucy, but this is your own failure."

Silence. Lucy keeps hiding her face, making no sound anymore. After Nellie goes back to polishing the counter, Lucy rises a little, her skin still burning. "My God, everyone on our street will know by tomorrow-" She begins pacing, lightheaded. Having been bred to defer, she easily falls into believing Nellie-_I walked right into his trap, idiotically. I brought every bit of it on myself._ Soon Nellie is concentrating on cleaning again, as if Lucy hadn't come in. In her peripheral vision, Nellie catches Lucy heading upstairs to where her baby girl is sleeping. Suddenly, at the first step, she turns back.

"Please take care of Johanna," Lucy stammers. And she is gone.

Nellie never believed Lucy deserved Benjamin.

Churning, dark, majestic Prussian blue carries the ship. Under a briny overcast, the piquant taste of the air, that air found only on the ocean and her shores, fills the heads of the crew of the H. M. S. _Bountiful_, bringing them to a clarity of sense and awareness that only the sea can bring. Every day, after sleep and work in the stifling cabins, it's still fresh.

Twenty-one-year-old Anthony, a midshipman, watches the movement of the water from the stern. Although the waves are peaking in sharp, rollicking foam, it's not dangerous; since they left the port it's been a slow day. They've left Australia for London. Anthony has found the landscape and climate of Australia decidedly frightening; being a bred Englishman, extreme heat tries even his faculties. Typically, in these southern-hemisphere waters, he doesn't wear a shirt. Sailors especially can get used to changing outward circumstances, and Anthony demonstrates this admirably, though he's still sweating to the point where his cheekbones and torso shimmer.

From afar, a piece of driftwood catches his eye. This is a common sight, especially off the coast of anywhere. When the waves subside, he sees more wood like it-and a raft. A sinking, broken mast. Anthony springs to his feet, alert. There's a man in rags clutching the raft as it tilts and rises with the waves.

"Oh God! He could die!" _Clang! Clang! Clang! _With the ringing of a bell, Anthony has his shipmates' attention. They steer towards the debris; Anthony gets a rope from a hook bolted to the deck. With some careful swelling and ebbing, the man in peril is in closer proximity; his facial features are beginning to emerge. Carefully watching, Anthony waits for the best moment, then throws an end of the rope out to the other man. "Take this!" he cries. Waters crash loudly all around the ship. Quickly, he ties the other end to the hook. "Thomas!" he calls. "Help me reel him in!" With prolonged exertion, panting and grunting, the stranger is saved, finally face-to-face before the sailors on the deck, soaking wet.

The stranger just breathes at first, detached, drinking in the fact of his salvation. He is much older than many of the crew of the _Bountiful_; heavy-set, brooding, with a menacing brow and eyes encircled in shadow. "God in Heaven," he sighs, "Thank you, boy." He looks up at Anthony, who seems to be the only one with interest in him. The sailor offers his hand, and the stranger takes it to hoist himself up. His is a great leathery hand; a fatherly hand peppered with coarse, blackish hairs. Anthony wonders how his skin could remain so pale after time in the south seas.

"May I ask the name of my preserver?"

"Anthony Hope, sir. And you are called-?"

He hesitates, trying to regain his bearings on reality. "Sweeney. Sweeney. . . Todd." His voice is a clear, ringing baritone. Anthony thinks he recognizes a hint of a London accent. Mr. Todd staggers to the steps leading up to the platform at the stern of the ship, exhausted, and throws a hand to his forehead. Anthony follows, fascinated. "May I sit by you?" he asks.

"By all means. Now. . . where is this ship headed?"

"To London, God willing, then after a week or so we leave again for the Mediterranean."

"London!" he exclaims. "Oh, Providence is kind!" Mr. Todd falls onto his back, looking at the clearing sky from the creaky wooden steps. He hasn't looked Anthony in the eye yet.

"You are from there, sir?"

"Yes. I've been-Wait. What year is it?"

"Eighteen forty-six. I reckon it'll be early spring when we return to England."

Mr. Todd groans. "Then-I've been from home fifteen years! My daughter-she must be a young lady now. _I've missed her whole childhood!_" He covers his face with his hands, cowering and trying not to weep. Anthony's heart is pierced-he feels like crying, too. "You have a family, Mr. Todd?"

"Yes. If you please, I don't want to talk about it."

"No problem, sir."

The captain calls Anthony away. Sweeney Todd remains drowned in the catharsis of his rescue, rejoicing to be going home, but mourning the lost years. Waste.

We lived peacefully enough together until I started bleeding. I was eleven at the time; the memory is branded like a scar._ Cicatrized_, that's the word. One morning I awoke to the unmistakable stench of blood underneath my coverlet. I threw it back to find my nightgown and bedclothes damp and saturated. Immediately, I screamed for him, convinced I was dying; falling apart from the inside. Why not the housekeeper or my governess, Carmilla? The housekeeper changes every few years, and I've never seen much of any of them. And my governess was a daily governess-she wouldn't come for some hours.

When he saw it, he calmly told me it was God punishing me for what Eve did in the Garden. "But," he added, "it also means you're becoming a woman." He gave a small smile after saying this, eyeing me in that same private-joke fashion from my nightmare.

Carmilla had something different to say. She begged me not to think of my bleeding as frightening or dirty. "Think of it as cleansing you. Think of it as dripping rubies. Everything in nature is beautiful, and this is no exception. It happens to all young ladies."

"Is that true?"

"Yes. And what's important is that it shows that you could have a child one day."

"What?" I gasped. "There might be a baby in me right now?!" I flushed, mortified.

"No, no, no," laughed Carmilla. She then clarified what _would_ give me a child, making me swear to never tell anyone we'd had this conversation.

It's only recently that it's begun to hurt. At least I know when it's coming now. I haven't seen Carmilla since she left the household; I've thanked her mentally for showing me how to keep the blood from ruining my clothes.

I kept my word about the baby discussion, but Carmilla was sacked within the next month. I figure my guardian knew what sorts of things she was telling me, somehow. I've heard him nights outside my door, panting. Oftentimes he makes other sounds. Frustratingly, I can never show horror because I know he's watching me. And I can't refrain from self-exposure because he'd realize that I hear him. Sometimes, when this happens, I kneel at the foot of my bed and pray. _Our Father which art in Heaven_, etc, etc. _Dear Lord, make him go away_. _Bring my mother to me._

Ah, yes. That reminds me. He isn't my father, obviously, or else he'd have to have himself arrested. My father, he says, was called Benjamin Barker, a felon transported to Australia for life. He fostered me because there was no one else to look after me. When I ask who my mother was, he invariably says "Some things are better left unsaid." He evades, which leaves me in unsettled pondering late at night sometimes. She must have died in gruesome circumstances; there's no other possibility (I tend to assume the worst so I'll never be disappointed.) I actually have something I know belonged to her, though: A pink and white satin reticule. On the outside, there is an embroidered name: L. McSweeney. If my mother's maiden name, it means I'm half-Irish, which I have no issues with, although my guardian dislikes the Irish. When Beadle Bamford or some other legal colleague of his is over, he tends to complain about the Irish "stealing our labor." I wonder if he even saw the embroidered name.

He's reading aloud to me:

"I will that women adorn themselves in modest apparel with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or costly array; But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works. Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection."

It's from the Bible. When I was little he read fairy tales instead.

"But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression. Notwithstanding she shall be saved by childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety."

Why does he say "sobriety" when he offered me whiskey just hours earlier at supper? Oh dear, I can't laugh. I can't smile. My façade will degenerate.

He closes his Bible (there's one kept in his room but not mine,) then looks at me, bedclothes over my small body, clothed in a muslin nightgown that I'm not sure is especially modest. You can see my stays through it.

"Will you read me the story of Rapunzel?" I plead. "Like you used to?"

"Rapunzel? Oh, of course. Anything for Puss." That's what he likes to call me instead of my name. He gets up from the chair he set next to my bed, much too small for him, and goes to my bookcase for the worn volume of children's stories. Then he begins reading the words I've practically memorized and always read in his voice. Because of the nightmare, I fear him-thanks to Carmilla, I have ideas about what he wants from me-but when he spoils me like this, voice low and tender, I feel like I'm in a heavenly chrysalis of protection. Maybe I do love him as a foster daughter should.

He's already finishing the story. It's easy to just _think_ when he reads to me; to pretend I'm listening. Somehow my train of thought rarely stays with whatever he reads. He closes the book, puts it on my nightstand, and leans over me as he does every night he's home. "I love you," he whispers. "Jesus loves you. Beadle Bamford loves you."

"Beadle Bamford?" I don't speak to Beadle Bamford. Him I definitely dislike. When my guardian asks me to perform on the piano for him, he smiles at me with a rancid candor that rivals that of my guardian's smirk, and I feel penetrated. "What about my mamma and papa?" I add. "They love me too, right? Even if they're in heaven?"

"I'm your papa." Now, the scruffy kiss. This time he lingers a bit-his hand is on my shoulder-oh God, oh God, it's like the nightmare. He just heard me gasp. I'm trying to maintain a neutral expression. Oh Lord, he hasn't risen yet. I'm warm again, and he'll interpret it the wrong way. Is this it?

Apparently not. He says good night my dear, snuffs out my candle, and disappears.

I'm too horrified to sleep. Thank God Carmilla and I crossed paths-thanks to her, I can tell that there's something wrong behind my guardian's tenderness. When I started bleeding, he began to kiss me more than he did before. But I like it. But I hate him! It's so easy for him to keep me from remembering how bad he gets. The other day, I walked to church with him, arm-in-arm as he always bids me do. I put on my favorite gown, a light white lace with long sleeves puffed at the shoulders and a pink ribbon round the waist. It recalls the fashions of twenty years ago somewhat, but it looks far from stupid. My bonnet's ribbon is also pink. White netted gloves complete the look. When he saw that I was wearing this to church, he chided me because he thought I looked like "a woman of ill repute." This despite the unalterable fact that every piece of clothing I own came from him!

Bright moonbeams fall over me from the window. Looking at the moon at night makes me feel safe, even when my guardian doesn't. I like to think that the moon is my true guardian-that when I see her light, it means my mother is watching over me from beyond the grave. L. McSweeney. Johanna McSweeney Barker. I can't help softly crying at the thought. When he makes me feel threatened, only this belief can bring me a peaceful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Judge Turpin is placidly enjoying an after-dinner whiskey in the parlor. Night pervades, and the fire in the fireplace just provides enough light to navigate the room. He isn't thinking much. One of his anthologies of lewd engravings lies stupidly open on the round side table next to him.

From down the hall, a knock comes at the door; he hears Wentworth open it. Wentworth comes to the parlor and announces "Bamford is here, my lord." Sure enough, the tall, bearded and rotund Beadle appears before his colleague. He takes off his hat and walks across the carpet.

"Bamford," says Turpin without getting up. "Good evening. Are you here on business, or what?"

"Lucy Barker poisoned herself."

Turpin is affected by this news. He sits upright, eyes newly alert. "Are you lying to me?"

"No. I learned it through. . . neighborhood gossip. What do you think of it?"

"I'm offended. Why didn't she recognize a good match when she saw it? I offered her wealth and status and she repeatedly toyed with us, and failed to realize I only wanted her more. She should have known better. And not to mention she had the blindness to marry a penniless peasant!" He sighs grimly. "She can rot in hell after what she put me through. Irish whore." He imbibes more of his drink. Silence.

"My lord, I came here to tell you-"

"What?" snaps the Judge.

"-Mrs. Barker had an infant daughter. Has. She entrusted her neighbor to raise her, but the neighbor absolutely will not do it. How do you feel about that?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"They're saying Lucy killed herself, and she did it because of what happened the night of the ball. Do you not fear being held accountable if the baby dies? She's practically been abandoned."

Turpin thinks a moment. "What are you saying? You think _I_ should raise Lucy's child?"

"You're a gentleman of prestige. It would be cruel to let your abundance go unshared. And," says the Beadle with a wry chuckle, "foster daughters are a good thing to have." He winks. Turpin, struck by the idea, rises to his feet.

"Well, at least, she would grow to be a proper lady under my watch, unlike her mother." He laughs. "Why not? The rabble will doubtless have little ill to say of me after this."

"Exactly. You'll have to hire a nurse, of course."

"Easily done. I want the child brought to me by next week." Maybe, he thinks, he won't end up womanless after all.

It's the next day now. I'm at my window seat, sewing again. My guardian only lets me out of the house if he's taking me somewhere. We have to link arms when we walk. No-obviously we don't _have_ to, yet I fear disobeying him like I fear a candle setting our house ablaze in the night.

He should be back from the Old Bailey any moment. Our house lies in the heart of Westminster, the only part of London I know.

"YOU!" My skin is prickling, hot with terror. Someone's crying out in the street. I know the voice. There's a strange woman I sometimes see, a lunatic, who stalks about asking passersby for alms. We pass her once in a while, and she calls after me, shrieking "Dearest! Dearest love!" Horrifying. I'm too smart to look a lunatic in the eye.

There he is at the front door. The beggar woman is addressing him; I see it comfortably from the third story. "Let me see her!" she stammers. What in God's name? "Just once! Please! Let me in. Let me IN!" I am so glad I'm safe up here. Does she think I'm someone else, or is she just mad?

"I told you you aren't welcome here!"_ SMACK._ He hit her! There she is, in the street again, cowering and whimpering. "If you _ever_ try that again, I will have you flogged. Do you understand me?" Why is he so angry at someone who is clearly not in her right mind? I knew he didn't think highly of the poor and homeless, but this is disturbing.

Carrying a threadbare knapsack, the hapless matron hobbles away, and I think I see she's sobbing. Hopefully the curtains are hiding me well. She sobs "Baby. . ."

Burning coal paints an airless hell. Monstrous machinery that could swallow a person too easily hums and whirs behind stacked rows of windows; under high smokestacks. In the night, someone is waiting on a corner turning into a narrow, crumbling alley whose cobblestones glimmer dully by the gaslight of the mills. The workers have to come out sometime.

Across the street, women are sewing clothes under terrible heat, struggling to breathe comfortably. When the night has gone on this long, they know they'll be let out soon to sleep for a few hours in overcrowded communal housing ridden with rats. Sure enough, the whistle high above their heads shrieks out of nowhere; deafening and rough on the ears. Steam blows liberally and shrouds the window looking into the street.

The man waiting by the alley hears the whistle; anyone on the block always can. He sees the seamstresses flock out of the doors, some of them prepubescent girls, muttering and clucking to one another. Only another few moments until he sees her. They all wear similarly grey, stain-spotted dresses and white caps, but her features are imprinted in his mind, and he will spring into animation when he sees her bright, shimmering golden tresses. Yes! Now he holds his breath. She has come out unaccompanied, expression vaguely glum.

Until she sees him. Lucy McSweeney hurries across the street as quickly as she can without drawing attention to herself-already her enthusiasm for his company has incited gossip. The other seamstresses enjoy calling her names.

"Lucy," he rejoices as she comes to his side. They dare not press hands.

"I did not expect to see you tonight, sir. You are exceptionally kind."

"Still 'sir?' Not Benjamin?" He is only teasing; she uses his name only when she knows no one can hear them.

"Come," suggests Benjamin, "You must walk with me." He leads her down the alley, a decidedly unromantic venue, but the nearest flower garden, he supposes, is miles away.

"All right. I have six hours until I must go back."

"Don't you want to sleep?"

"Sleep?!" she laughs. "What's sleep? I don't mind a walk in the least. I've been sitting all night and day, so much that it hurts." She removes her cap, revealing the hair he so adores, messily braided. He wants to endlessly run his fingers through it. Fed up, Benjamin summons all the courage he can muster, draws a deep breath, and stops walking.

"Lucy," he repeats, this time more solemnly. She turns back to see him standing upright with his hands behind his back. "Lucy, I cannot bear to see you suffer like this. You don't deserve to be made to act like a machine night and day in an inferno like that. There's dark under your eyes and you're red as an apple. I've heard what happens to those children. Working there is ruining your health."

She only looks at him and sheds a tear.

"I-I-Oh God, forgive me, my love, but I can't hold back any longer. Lucy, I've been managing to bring in good business in my shop as of late, and I can finally provide for myself well. I want to provide for you, too." He seizes both Lucy's hands, and her mouth falls open. Now they're both red in the face. "You don't deserve to live as a wage-slave. Will you end our mutual torment and become my wife?"

Lucy staggers. It's too good to be true. Benjamin lets go of her hands and she covers her face, in bashful, swooning ecstasy.

"I'll buy you new dresses and a warm shawl and anything you want. You'll never work again. You'll get a good night's rest every day, I promise-" He doesn't want to cry. What will Lucy say to him?

"If you don't kiss me, Ben. . . I think I'm gonna die." She falls into his arms. For the first time in their year's acquaintance, they kiss, and wildly. Lucy thinks she'll faint.

From the other end of the alley, Nellie Lovett has seen all of this. She stands still in disbelief, preparing for the onset of bereavement; letting her shopping basket slide off her arm and onto the pavement. Whenever Benjamin comes to the industrial part of town to meet Lucy, Nellie follows in secret. She is too late. To save herself embarrassment, Nellie picks her basket back up and scurries away. All three are weeping now.

"What was that?" asks Lucy all of a sudden. She caught a glimpse of Nellie just before she disappeared. "I think that was your neighbor, Ellen."

"It's Nellie. She was actually christened as Nellie." His arms are firmly clasped round her waist.

"Oh! Wait until she hears we're to be married, she'll be so happy! Let's go tell her!"

The next months are a harrowing blur for Nellie. Somehow, it doesn't really sink in until the day Lucy comes downstairs into her shop visibly pregnant. After switching residences, Lucy has lost the dark circles under her eyes and achieved silkier, brighter skin. And she looks on Nellie as the dearest of friends.

Today, though, she sits down before the counter in a disgruntled huff, and her pregnancy is not the reason for it.

"Afternoon," says Nellie. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No. Have you got anything in the oven at present? I need meat, and quickly." Nellie agrees to head to the cellar and check on the batch of pies in there, wondering why Lucy's Irish accent hasn't disappeared yet.

Between bites of pork, Lucy intimates her problem. "There's this man that's been hanging about our street lately. Looks rich as a Jew, from his clothes. Whenever I go out shopping, he smiles at me in a way I don't like. He's got a friend, too, an ugly one; almost a giant. Have you seen them around?"

"I sure have. Judge Turpin and Beadle Bamford! Lucky you!"

"You know who they are? And why 'lucky?'"

"Well, like you said, 'e's rich. Far richer than Benjamin, I should say. A pretty lady like you would be a good match."

"Nellie," cries Lucy, "Do you not even remember that I'm married? I love Ben devotedly; I don't care who has more money! And. . ." A sour, uncomfortable lump forms in her stomach. ". . . men of his standing don't think well of the Irish. You should remember that. Those two, I wager, see me as more of a gentleman's diversion than a potential lover to serve and protect." Lucy shoots Nellie a dirty look, then, when nothing more is said, pensively strokes her round belly. Many women she has known have died in childbirth or soon after. She rarely allows this starkly depressing fact to shake her faith that she will survive, but in moments where negative thoughts hang over, fear surfaces and she needs to tell her husband. Every morning and evening she prays to Mary and St. Bridget for a safe delivery and a child she'll see grow up.


	3. Chapter 3

Spring at last!

I've opened my window, and the drafts finally do not chill or bite. I can always tell when the weather has broken from the smell of mud in the park across the street. The trees, flanked on all sides by gray, temple-like façades similar to that of our house, will bud in a few weeks. And then-daffodils; tulips; hyacinth! I tremble with anticipation.

And lo, the friendly peddlers have appeared with their wares. Loaves of bread; pungent fish; fruits and vegetables. I'm reminded of the times my guardian has let me go with the housekeeper over to St. Dunstan's marketplace. The very birdseller I always visit on the way there (I've always wanted a pet) is in fact on our street now; he sees me and bids me good morning. How does he know my name? Several regulars at the market do by now.

My guardian has been at work all morning, so I feel particularly giddy under this well-deserved sunshine. I watch everyone passing below me: great ladies in bonnets adorned with ribbons and flowers; less fortunate folk in scruffy, limp clothes carrying shopping baskets or loitering against the gate into the park. And there's that woman again. She's asking the richer ones for money, but, predictably, they spare her not the least glance, marching onward determinedly under frilly parasols. I wish I had the courage to give her alms myself.

There's a young sailor as well traversing our street, eye-catching in a soothing vibrant dark blue uniform. He's carrying a large knapsack. He finds the bench directly across from our front door, sits down, and produces a sheet of paper from his pocket, perhaps a map. Where did he come from? Where is he trying to go?

"Young men," said my guardian, "are what nice girls should be wary of. If you let one of them do too much, you'll be cast out and starving on the streets."

"Do too much? Cast out? What do you mean?" I quietly asked.

"If a girl is so foolish as to bat her eyelids at a gentleman of loose habits-a sailor, for example-she is as good as fallen. Those men don't think of what they do. And there's no helping it; you can't check human nature, so you have to keep wary of how men see you. If they receive the wrong message, you'll be sorry." He smirked as he loves to do.

That was before my revelatory discussion with Carmilla, so my fear was magnified by the unknown nature of what he was referencing. Why wouldn't he tell me more?

The sailor looks up. I realize I'm almost leaning out of the window. From this vantage point, his skin appears clear and luminescent, but it might be rougher; who knows. His hair cascades in rich, thick black curls that glimmer under a sun emerging from the clouds. Is he looking at me? I realize I've been singing a little to myself as I normally do when I'm alone; sometimes the song cannot keep within my mind and passes my lips before I know it. Surely he couldn't have heard me all the way down there!

I'm not afraid. There's a crystalline brightness in the sailor's eyes that separates his aura from that of Beadle Bamford and other men on the street I've found threatening. He is as unlike my guardian as is conceivable, and I like it. Look-he stands back up, not diverting his gaze! Rosy Grecian lips part and form a friendly smile. My pulse is wild; I'm sweating. In face, strong jaw, and form, he reminds me of the statues of Antinoös I've found in books of Classical sculpture from my guardian's library. And now, oh yes, oh yes, our gazes have locked. Warmth like the warmth of May flows through me from a mysterious, secret source, and I throb underneath my skirts. ("A woman's pleasure is one of the great miracles of nature," said Carmilla.) I lean outward a little. . .

He jumps, suddenly affright. It's the lunatic; she's pressing _him_ now! I can't hear what they're saying through the sounds of all the other people on the street. The sailor asks her something, glancing back up to where I am. A moment later, the woman-God in heaven! She just bluntly squeezed his. . . unmentionable area. What a brave lady! I suppose, with her age and witch-like appearance, she is more learned in what you feel when a sailor walks by. As for him, he controls his embarrassment, extracting a few coins to hand to her. Noble soul, he must be. The woman, satisfied, hobbles away past my line of sight, perhaps to engage in witchcraft. She's smiling in a way that would suggest it.

The sailor meets my eyes again, and my core trembles blissfully. Smiling again, he gestures with his hand-_come down. _A young man is inviting me to speak with him?!

I scurry from my room, descending the stairs as fast as I can without tripping. No sign of Wentworth or the housekeeper, thankfully. At the front door, I stop. What does this sailor want to say or do? If he's a scoundrel, he certainly does not carry that aura-but I've only just discovered him. And yet. . . a sailor must know truths of the world that I cannot, having spent the majority of my life in this house with a man who keeps information from me. Carmilla taught me several delightful skills and truths, but there must be more. I reach for the doorknob.

There he is, right on our doorstep, standing upright like a gentleman. He's so much taller than I am-how old is he? Shaking, I draw near him, unsure of what to say. Something in the brightness of his eye tells me that he can help me learn and grow.

"This is for you, Johanna." He extends a hand.

"You found out my name!" I draw my own hand to my face, blushing. The lunatic must have told him (but how did she find out?) I reach with my other hand for whatever he's giving me, and then our fingers touch. Compared to me, he has great, strong fingers, coarse and calloused from all the lifting and rope-pulling he must do. From his palm I extract a small, understated string of pearls.

"Oh my," I gasp, "Do you mean it? A string of pearls! Thank you, kind sir. I don't know how I can possibly repay you-"

"You need not repay me, miss. I just wanted to. . ."

"Johanna!"

"AAAIEE!" Of COURSE he's just getting back right this second! Damn it. I scream so easily; this is the worst time to trigger that! My guardian storms up the doorstep, not bothering to take off his hat.

"Johanna Barker, what is the meaning of this? What do you have to say for yourself? Hm?!" He's glaring; I can't look except at the ground. "I told you you're not supposed to talk to young men. My child is not a slut."

I'm hiding the pearls behind my back. "He knocked on the door, father, and Wentworth wasn't here so I thought to answer myself, but I didn't know who it was. I would never encourage a strange man; you know I love you, father, and I treasure everything you teach me. Please forgive me, oh, please-"

"Hush, hush, my girl. Will you look at me?" He removes his hat. I obey him as tears warm my cheeks. "There, there. It's all right." He pats my cheek. Then, abruptly, he turns round to glare at the sailor. "As for you, boy. . .what right do you have to intrude onto my property? Leave my daughter alone. Do you understand me?"

"But sir-my lord-I only wanted to-"

"LEAVE! And if you come back, I will have you flogged to the bones."

I can't watch this. I hurry back inside, to the parlor, hiding the pearls in my bosom. My guardian slams the door, following me. I run to sit on the couch, wildly shaking and looking down at the carpet in my practiced pose of submission.

"Puss?" A rustle as he hands his overcoat to Wentworth. Then he comes to me. "Johanna, I'm not cross. Don't cry, Puss. I believe you." Something tells me he enjoys every moment of it whenever I cry.

"But you're kept in this house for a reason, you know," he adds. "In a place like London, it's too easy. Too easy for a girl to fall. The most important thing in your life right now-right now, at least-is your purity." Does he mean what I think he means? "I don't believe you encouraged the sailor, but I want you to promise me you'll stay away from boys until you're married."

"I promise. . . father." He gets something out of it when I say "father," it's so obvious. "When will I marry?"

"In due time, my love. Don't worry." With that he leaves, probably for his private parlor where I'm not allowed in.

The most important thing in my life is my purity. Who knew? Thank God Carmilla isn't around to have heard that: if she had, I imagine she'd howl like a wild animal at him and at me.

I stay in the parlor, thinking about the sailor and what the sight of him made me feel. He knows the world and its people firsthand. He is my gateway to everything my guardian has denied me. Or am I conjecturing? Perhaps our souls knew one another in a past life and that's why he was drawn to me. I'm not unwilling to believe such things.

It's Friday now. The next day. I'm in my room as usual. He doesn't particularly like it when I wander about the house, except if I go right to the public parlor. Now and again he bids me appear before his colleagues when they're over to play on the dusty pianoforte he has there. Barristers, solicitors and the like. I wonder if he knows that I know he has a private parlor?

So what should I do today? Is that sailor still thinking of me? The memory of his physical presence envelops me with pleasure, most definitely that of which Carmilla spoke to me. Outside it's still warm, so I open the window and breathe. Then I go to my vanity to look at the pearls, shimmering like something of the realm of gods and goddesses. From the bottom of the ocean. None of them are perfectly round upon close inspection. I've never seen anything like them.

Time to embroider. I jump over to my bureau, crane on tiptoes, and lift my box of needlework supplies down. Inside my hoop, roses made of curled ribbon shimmer as well, beautifully tactile, connected by bright and organic vines on linen of the cleanest white imaginable. I have to finish the garden. In mere moments, I am so madly engrossed in sewing my flowers that perception of the environment around me dissolves, a rare but triumphant experience. When this happens I really feel like I'm creating something worthwhile and important. Yes, embroidery is important. It's the one art on which girls and women have a monopoly, as far as I know, and an aesthetically powerful one at that. And art isn't easy. I lose track of time, but then that's a given.

_Clack!_ I gasp, nearly jumping. My guardian steps in, standing erect and decorous like he does whenever he lectures me. For some reason he's wearing his judicial robes, and I catch sight of grey hairs peeking out from under the collar. It matches his stubble. I greet him with " Good morning, father" to calm whatever temper he might have built up. But he doesn't look like it. Why is he holding his Bible?

"Johanna, come here, my dear. Sit." He gestures towards my chair. I set down my work and obey.

"I see you've opened your window. What does that mean, child?"

"Well, sir-" I try not to sweat- "I wanted fresh air."

"Is that all? I should sincerely hope not, for the sailor has returned since yesterday, begging like an animal. You mean you haven't heard him-or," he adds with growing venom, "encouraged him with your eyes?"

"Why would you suspect me of coquetry, father? All my life you've told me time and again of how imperative it is for a girl to avoid. . ." He eyes me curiously. ". . . to avoid falling."

"That is true. Which is why you are to be married soon."

"Soon?!" I start from my chair, hot with disbelief. "Must I marry soon?"

"Yes; I'm sorry, but you must." He's looking away from me, pensive yet with underlying nervousness. What on Earth can he be thinking? Another moment and he looks me in the eye again.

"Puss," he says in that chillingly soft tone, "You've been such a good girl for me. You ought to marry a man who will give you what you deserve-who will protect you from the advances of ungodly men. You must be guided, otherwise you will not become a proper woman. Not all men could do this." He falls to his knees. "My dearest love, I've done so much for you as a guardian. I know I have earned more tender affections than what we have shared all this time." Flushing, he seizes my hand, looking up pleadingly. Without thinking to consult me, he plants a maddened kiss on it. All I can do is gape, aghast, choking audibly. Oh no. Lord assist me now. It's no joke. It's no joke.

"You-" I stammer. "-you?!" I want to cry.

"Search your soul. You know you owe me your hand. No man would love you like me!" He's not letting go of me. "I shall feed you cakes and chocolates, or whatever you wish, and dress you like a dancer." Not the lewdest of professions?! Coquetry was a bad thing a second ago! "Listen. I know what Carmilla used to tell you."

"No." I can't help saying it. He smirks.

"Puss, that does not displease me. I know now that you have the knowledge to be the perfect wife for me, after being such a lovely obedient daughter."

"Sir-" I try to begin. He's contradicting what he usually says.

"Don't complain. This is the right path for you, and you know it. I've settled the ceremony for Monday." He releases my hand, going to leave the room. "Papa has to go to work now. I'll be gone until three-thirty, and during that time you're going to think about the debt you owe me. Do you understand?"

What else can I say? "I understand, sir."

"Good girl. I love you. Goodbye. . . Puss." Evidently choleric, he strides away, not bothering to shut the door. The key to my room is still in the lock, even.

No. No no no no no no no no. It's exactly as bad as I feared. I throw myself on my bed, unable to breathe, then heaving in a way to burn my dry throat. Hot tears flood my eyes. Isn't the man proposing supposed to wait for the woman's answer and then obey it?! Lord my God, how can I bear to become his wife and live? What horrors could a deceitful man like him make his subordinate do? This is humiliating. Whatever amount of humanity I possessed will be wrenched from me the moment he makes me totally his.

I didn't shut my eyes; they glazed over. But I can still see the open door through tears. And there's the key. The key!

There's only a few hours until my fate is sealed, and only one way out of dehumanization. I rise, get the key (it works on the front door, too; I've seen my guardian use it there) and sprint back to the window. Wait-how will the sailor know it's from me? Luckily, there's an inkwell with papers on my vanity. I hop over to it, rip a small piece off one sheet of paper, and write _Come to me. -Johanna_. Then, hasty in numbing, heart-pounding fear, I wrap the key in the paper, not forgetting to blow on the ink first. Back at the window, I open it as far as it will go, then throw the key down onto the pavement. _Clink!_ Good, it didn't break. Oh, Lord, he said the sailor returned to our street-will he find it? Sailor, you are my only means of salvation.


	4. Chapter 4

Spring at last!

I've opened my window, and the drafts finally do not chill or bite. I can always tell when the weather has broken from the smell of mud in the park across the street. The trees, flanked on all sides by gray, temple-like façades similar to that of our house, will bud in a few weeks. And then-daffodils; tulips; hyacinth! I tremble with anticipation.

And lo, the friendly peddlers have appeared with their wares. Loaves of bread; pungent fish; fruits and vegetables. I'm reminded of the times my guardian has let me go with the housekeeper over to St. Dunstan's marketplace. The very birdseller I always visit on the way there (I've always wanted a pet) is in fact on our street now; he sees me and bids me good morning. How does he know my name? Several regulars at the market do by now.

My guardian has been at work all morning, so I feel particularly giddy under this well-deserved sunshine. I watch everyone passing below me: great ladies in bonnets adorned with ribbons and flowers; less fortunate folk in scruffy, limp clothes carrying shopping baskets or loitering against the gate into the park. And there's that woman again. She's asking the richer ones for money, but, predictably, they spare her not the least glance, marching onward determinedly under frilly parasols. I wish I had the courage to give her alms myself.

There's a young sailor as well traversing our street, eye-catching in a soothing vibrant dark blue uniform. He's carrying a large knapsack. He finds the bench directly across from our front door, sits down, and produces a sheet of paper from his pocket, perhaps a map. Where did he come from? Where is he trying to go?

"Young men," said my guardian, "are what nice girls should be wary of. If you let one of them do too much, you'll be cast out and starving on the streets."

"Do too much? Cast out? What do you mean?" I quietly asked.

"If a girl is so foolish as to bat her eyelids at a gentleman of loose habits-a sailor, for example-she is as good as fallen. Those men don't think of what they do. And there's no helping it; you can't check human nature, so you have to keep wary of how men see you. If they receive the wrong message, you'll be sorry." He smirked as he loves to do.

That was before my revelatory discussion with Carmilla, so my fear was magnified by the unknown nature of what he was referencing. Why wouldn't he tell me more?

The sailor looks up. I realize I'm almost leaning out of the window. From this vantage point, his skin appears clear and luminescent, but it might be rougher; who knows. His hair cascades in rich, thick black curls that glimmer under a sun emerging from the clouds. Is he looking at me? I realize I've been singing a little to myself as I normally do when I'm alone; sometimes the song cannot keep within my mind and passes my lips before I know it. Surely he couldn't have heard me all the way down there!

I'm not afraid. There's a crystalline brightness in the sailor's eyes that separates his aura from that of Beadle Bamford and other men on the street I've found threatening. He is as unlike my guardian as is conceivable, and I like it. Look-he stands back up, not diverting his gaze! Rosy Grecian lips part and form a friendly smile. My pulse is wild; I'm sweating. In face, strong jaw, and form, he reminds me of the statues of Antinoös I've found in books of Classical sculpture from my guardian's library. And now, oh yes, oh yes, our gazes have locked. Warmth like the warmth of May flows through me from a mysterious, secret source, and I throb underneath my skirts. ("A woman's pleasure is one of the great miracles of nature," said Carmilla.) I lean outward a little. . .

He jumps, suddenly affright. It's the lunatic; she's pressing _him_ now! I can't hear what they're saying through the sounds of all the other people on the street. The sailor asks her something, glancing back up to where I am. A moment later, the woman-God in heaven! She just bluntly squeezed his. . . unmentionable area. What a brave lady! I suppose, with her age and witch-like appearance, she is more learned in what you feel when a sailor walks by. As for him, he controls his embarrassment, extracting a few coins to hand to her. Noble soul, he must be. The woman, satisfied, hobbles away past my line of sight, perhaps to engage in witchcraft. She's smiling in a way that would suggest it.

The sailor meets my eyes again, and my core trembles blissfully. Smiling again, he gestures with his hand-_come down. _A young man is inviting me to speak with him?!

I scurry from my room, descending the stairs as fast as I can without tripping. No sign of Wentworth or the housekeeper, thankfully. At the front door, I stop. What does this sailor want to say or do? If he's a scoundrel, he certainly does not carry that aura-but I've only just discovered him. And yet. . . a sailor must know truths of the world that I cannot, having spent the majority of my life in this house with a man who keeps information from me. Carmilla taught me several delightful skills and truths, but there must be more. I reach for the doorknob.

There he is, right on our doorstep, standing upright like a gentleman. He's so much taller than I am-how old is he? Shaking, I draw near him, unsure of what to say. Something in the brightness of his eye tells me that he can help me learn and grow.

"This is for you, Johanna." He extends a hand.

"You found out my name!" I draw my own hand to my face, blushing. The lunatic must have told him (but how did she find out?) I reach with my other hand for whatever he's giving me, and then our fingers touch. Compared to me, he has great, strong fingers, coarse and calloused from all the lifting and rope-pulling he must do. From his palm I extract a small, understated string of pearls.

"Oh my," I gasp, "Do you mean it? A string of pearls! Thank you, kind sir. I don't know how I can possibly repay you-"

"You need not repay me, miss. I just wanted to. . ."

"Johanna!"

"AAAIEE!" Of COURSE he's just getting back right this second! Damn it. I scream so easily; this is the worst time to trigger that! My guardian storms up the doorstep, not bothering to take off his hat.

"Johanna Barker, what is the meaning of this? What do you have to say for yourself? Hm?!" He's glaring; I can't look except at the ground. "I told you you're not supposed to talk to young men. My child is not a slut."

I'm hiding the pearls behind my back. "He knocked on the door, father, and Wentworth wasn't here so I thought to answer myself, but I didn't know who it was. I would never encourage a strange man; you know I love you, father, and I treasure everything you teach me. Please forgive me, oh, please-"

"Hush, hush, my girl. Will you look at me?" He removes his hat. I obey him as tears warm my cheeks. "There, there. It's all right." He pats my cheek. Then, abruptly, he turns round to glare at the sailor. "As for you, boy. . .what right do you have to intrude onto my property? Leave my daughter alone. Do you understand me?"

"But sir-my lord-I only wanted to-"

"LEAVE! And if you come back, I will have you flogged to the bones."

I can't watch this. I hurry back inside, to the parlor, hiding the pearls in my bosom. My guardian slams the door, following me. I run to sit on the couch, wildly shaking and looking down at the carpet in my practiced pose of submission.

"Puss?" A rustle as he hands his overcoat to Wentworth. Then he comes to me. "Johanna, I'm not cross. Don't cry, Puss. I believe you." Something tells me he enjoys every moment of it whenever I cry.

"But you're kept in this house for a reason, you know," he adds. "In a place like London, it's too easy. Too easy for a girl to fall. The most important thing in your life right now-right now, at least-is your purity." Does he mean what I think he means? "I don't believe you encouraged the sailor, but I want you to promise me you'll stay away from boys until you're married."

"I promise. . . father." He gets something out of it when I say "father," it's so obvious. "When will I marry?"

"In due time, my love. Don't worry." With that he leaves, probably for his private parlor where I'm not allowed in.

The most important thing in my life is my purity. Who knew? Thank God Carmilla isn't around to have heard that: if she had, I imagine she'd howl like a wild animal at him and at me.

I stay in the parlor, thinking about the sailor and what the sight of him made me feel. He knows the world and its people firsthand. He is my gateway to everything my guardian has denied me. Or am I conjecturing? Perhaps our souls knew one another in a past life and that's why he was drawn to me. I'm not unwilling to believe such things.

It's Friday now. The next day. I'm in my room as usual. He doesn't particularly like it when I wander about the house, except if I go right to the public parlor. Now and again he bids me appear before his colleagues when they're over to play on the dusty pianoforte he has there. Barristers, solicitors and the like. I wonder if he knows that I know he has a private parlor?

So what should I do today? Is that sailor still thinking of me? The memory of his physical presence envelops me with pleasure, most definitely that of which Carmilla spoke to me. Outside it's still warm, so I open the window and breathe. Then I go to my vanity to look at the pearls, shimmering like something of the realm of gods and goddesses. From the bottom of the ocean. None of them are perfectly round upon close inspection. I've never seen anything like them.

Time to embroider. I jump over to my bureau, crane on tiptoes, and lift my box of needlework supplies down. Inside my hoop, roses made of curled ribbon shimmer as well, beautifully tactile, connected by bright and organic vines on linen of the cleanest white imaginable. I have to finish the garden. In mere moments, I am so madly engrossed in sewing my flowers that perception of the environment around me dissolves, a rare but triumphant experience. When this happens I really feel like I'm creating something worthwhile and important. Yes, embroidery is important. It's the one art on which girls and women have a monopoly, as far as I know, and an aesthetically powerful one at that. And art isn't easy. I lose track of time, but then that's a given.

_Clack!_ I gasp, nearly jumping. My guardian steps in, standing erect and decorous like he does whenever he lectures me. For some reason he's wearing his judicial robes, and I catch sight of grey hairs peeking out from under the collar. It matches his stubble. I greet him with " Good morning, father" to calm whatever temper he might have built up. But he doesn't look like it. Why is he holding his Bible?

"Johanna, come here, my dear. Sit." He gestures towards my chair. I set down my work and obey.

"I see you've opened your window. What does that mean, child?"

"Well, sir-" I try not to sweat- "I wanted fresh air."

"Is that all? I should sincerely hope not, for the sailor has returned since yesterday, begging like an animal. You mean you haven't heard him-or," he adds with growing venom, "encouraged him with your eyes?"

"Why would you suspect me of coquetry, father? All my life you've told me time and again of how imperative it is for a girl to avoid. . ." He eyes me curiously. ". . . to avoid falling."

"That is true. Which is why you are to be married soon."

"Soon?!" I start from my chair, hot with disbelief. "Must I marry soon?"

"Yes; I'm sorry, but you must." He's looking away from me, pensive yet with underlying nervousness. What on Earth can he be thinking? Another moment and he looks me in the eye again.

"Puss," he says in that chillingly soft tone, "You've been such a good girl for me. You ought to marry a man who will give you what you deserve-who will protect you from the advances of ungodly men. You must be guided, otherwise you will not become a proper woman. Not all men could do this." He falls to his knees. "My dearest love, I've done so much for you as a guardian. I know I have earned more tender affections than what we have shared all this time." Flushing, he seizes my hand, looking up pleadingly. Without thinking to consult me, he plants a maddened kiss on it. All I can do is gape, aghast, choking audibly. Oh no. Lord assist me now. It's no joke. It's no joke.

"You-" I stammer. "-you?!" I want to cry.

"Search your soul. You know you owe me your hand. No man would love you like me!" He's not letting go of me. "I shall feed you cakes and chocolates, or whatever you wish, and dress you like a dancer." Not the lewdest of professions?! Coquetry was a bad thing a second ago! "Listen. I know what Carmilla used to tell you."

"No." I can't help saying it. He smirks.

"Puss, that does not displease me. I know now that you have the knowledge to be the perfect wife for me, after being such a lovely obedient daughter."

"Sir-" I try to begin. He's contradicting what he usually says.

"Don't complain. This is the right path for you, and you know it. I've settled the ceremony for Monday." He releases my hand, going to leave the room. "Papa has to go to work now. I'll be gone until three-thirty, and during that time you're going to think about the debt you owe me. Do you understand?"

What else can I say? "I understand, sir."

"Good girl. I love you. Goodbye. . . Puss." Evidently choleric, he strides away, not bothering to shut the door. The key to my room is still in the lock, even.

No. No no no no no no no no. It's exactly as bad as I feared. I throw myself on my bed, unable to breathe, then heaving in a way to burn my dry throat. Hot tears flood my eyes. Isn't the man proposing supposed to wait for the woman's answer and then obey it?! Lord my God, how can I bear to become his wife and live? What horrors could a deceitful man like him make his subordinate do? This is humiliating. Whatever amount of humanity I possessed will be wrenched from me the moment he makes me totally his.

I didn't shut my eyes; they glazed over. But I can still see the open door through tears. And there's the key. The key!

There's only a few hours until my fate is sealed, and only one way out of dehumanization. I rise, get the key (it works on the front door, too; I've seen my guardian use it there) and sprint back to the window. Wait-how will the sailor know it's from me? Luckily, there's an inkwell with papers on my vanity. I hop over to it, rip a small piece off one sheet of paper, and write _Come to me. -Johanna_. Then, hasty in numbing, heart-pounding fear, I wrap the key in the paper, not forgetting to blow on the ink first. Back at the window, I open it as far as it will go, then throw the key down onto the pavement. _Clink!_ Good, it didn't break. Oh, Lord, he said the sailor returned to our street-will he find it? Sailor, you are my only means of salvation.

I'm too agitated to concentrate on anything other than hoping he'll come. At first I pace around and around my room, then I flop on the bed and pretend to nap. My head hurts. Damn him. Not the sailor, the other him.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ My pulse goes into overdrive. Someone's coming up the stairs, and his feet aren't heavy enough to be my guardian's! Is it him?! Is it him?! Out of breath, I sit back upright, fixing my savage mane of hair and swallowing. My door is still open so he'll know where I am.

The steps inch closer. A door opens, then another, closer to mine. I shut my eyes, taking deep breaths, longing to calm down; rubbing my temples. When I open, the sailor has materialized in my doorway.

"Johanna," he says breathlessly.

"You came!" I cry, leaping forward. Oh, how he looks at me! He's so tall; such earnest, innocent eyes and such a toned, robust form clad in soothing deep blue! He returns my key to me, no less. "May I sit down with you?" he asks. I nod, patting a spot next to me on the bed.

"Oh sir," I begin, "Thank you so much for coming. You have to help me. I'm in so much danger. My guardian-is forcing me to marry him!" My headache is going, but I can't stop shaking. Would he mind if I touched him right now?

"The man you called father? Oh my God, no. What an abomination! I knew he was a bad man."

"He isn't my true father, of course," I sob, "but I saw him as such, until he started scaring me. He thinks men should be able to do what they want with their wives, no matter what! It's actually the law, did you know that? I heard him talking to the Beadle about it once; I was so upset and afraid. Do you understand what that means I'll have to go through?" I fall onto his shoulder, impulsively throwing my arms round his neck. He's warm.

"Shhh. . . That's it, you can hug me if you wish. . . Don't cry."

"Don't cry? My life as a free person has been denied me! I should kill myself!"

"No!" he cries, cradling me in his arms and rekindling the pleasure I felt yesterday tenfold. "You will do nothing of the sort! Don't say that. I know what we should do."

"What?"

"You can marry me instead before he gets the chance."

Somehow we're both reclining now; his big taut arms hold my back to his warm chest. My backside is touching between his legs. For a moment the only sound is my fearful panting as I roll around to face him. I've never wanted to know anyone's body so much. Our eyes meet. "Will you kiss me?" I whisper.

He obeys, and I whimper with need. Smooth, moist softness over my mouth and a hand stroking my hair. "Mmm," he purrs. I know exactly where I want him to touch me now. Under my skirts it aches with passion and want.

"I shall marry you?" I confirm, suddenly underneath him.

"Yes, and your free personhood shall be respected, I swear it. You won't have to kiss me again if you don't want to." I do anyway, tasting his mouth. "Sir," I giggle, "I still don't know your name. Are you aware of that?"

"Oh, a thousand apologies! I'm Anthony. Anthony Hope."

"Pleased to meet you." I smile. Then we're kissing again, our hands mapping one another's bodies. Anthony smells nothing like my guardian-musk and sandalwood. My legs open just a little, trying to encircle his form. He brushes his fingertips over my jawbone and into my hair, now exploring my neck with his lips. I feel new tears swell in my eyes, but for a different reason than before. This is making me deliriously happy. "You feel so good," I sigh.

"I'm glad."

"What shall we do after we're married?"

"Hmm. Would you be opposed to a voyage around the Mediterranean?"

"A voyage! It cannot be! Have you the means?"

"It's what the captain of my ship was planning on. We'll be sailing out of Plymouth on Monday. So would you like it?"

"Certainly. Spain and Italy would help me forget the life I have here." I'm still crying. "Oh sir, your kindness overwhelms me," I choke. "Do you promise to look after me when we're married? Will you honor my thoughts and desires, as my current guardian has failed to do? Promise."

He sits back up, drawing the warmth away from me. "I shall be completely at your disposal. You shan't have to do anything you don't want to do."

Someone is making noise in the street near the front door. "Oh no!" I gasp, jumping up. "Oh my God! Did you hear that?!"

"What?"

"Out in the street; I think he's coming back. You have to-" It's too much to handle. I bury my face in my hands. Don't let this happen! "Could you go to the window and see who's there? I'm too frightened." As I try to control my breathing, which is becoming abrasive, I feel him get off the bed.

"He isn't there, Johanna. It's okay."

I look back at him-oh, that smile! How it stirs me! "Well. . . Anthony," I continue, "you might want to go now before he gets back. He said he'd be back at three-thirty."

"That's not for some time! But. . . I guess I can go if you really want me to. No use taking a risk." He comes back to where I'm sitting, stroking my cheek with his calloused hand. "Until tonight, dear girl." Cupping my face in both hands, he kisses me one last time. Soothing, warm and wet.

"You are such a wonderful man, helping me like this."

"Well, my mother always taught me to aid fellow creatures in need. All good souls deserve attention to their welfare."

"Goodbye!"

When Anthony's steps fade into silence, I lie back on the bed seeking what bodily warmth his presence may have left. Is he in earnest? Might he bed and abandon me instead of devoting his time and effort to my welfare? It's no matter: I could find a situation as a governess somewhere under a different name once I'm out of my guardian's reach-if I'm ever out of his reach. Maybe I need to pray again.


End file.
